DELIVER(57)

He surged forward, deepening the reach of his tongue, clinging to the connection, wanting more, wanting all of her. “Let me inside of you.” He rocked his erection against her thigh, groaning, wanting in her so badly. “Please, Liv.”

“No.” Her tone was a sharp prick. The rejection cut.

He dropped his face against her neck, moaned. There were dozens of reasons why she would refuse him. He needed to know her reason. “Tell me why.”

She pushed on his chest until he conceded a few inches of space. “I’ve been where you are. I gave the wrong person my virginity and have resented him every second since.” Her hand cupped his jaw and fell away.

He had a long way to go on salvaging her self-worth if she put herself in the same category as Van. “Fine, Liv.” He blew out a breath. “We’ll work on righting your perceptions.”

“We’re not—”

He pressed two fingers over her lips. “Let me touch you. I’ve been here eight days and haven’t seen you orgasm once.” He released her mouth to trace the line of her neck.

“Just hold me?” Her request was tender in its delivery, but potent in its significance.

“Gladly.” He curled around her back and tucked a knee between her legs. His hand on her breast, his heart paced in tune with hers.

Holding her, melding with her, his virginity felt so inconsequential. This connection extended far beyond a physical union. He’d give her anything. He wanted to give her everything.

“Liv?”

“Mm.”

“You said there were twelve requirements. You’ve only given me eleven.”

She laced her fingers through his and held their hands to her chest. “Requirement number twelve. Slave will not sleep in Master’s bed.”

His laugh coaxed hers, and they tumbled into comfortable silence.

The ceiling’s A/C vent breathed a steady whoosh. He tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t shut off as he traced through the events of the night. “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did Van pull out your hair?”

A sigh. “It’s his thing.”

It was a common occurrence? “He has a lot of things.”

“You have no idea.” She wiggled her back closer against his chest. “Go to sleep. We’ve got a four hour drive tomorrow.”

The meeting with the buyer. He would leave the attic, taunted with freedom, enchained by the threat on her life.





Chapter 27




Crack.

Liv raised the four-foot stock whip, the rigid handle sweaty in her palm, her stomach twisting. They had to leave for the meeting in one hour.

She swung again. Crack.

He flattened his hands on the wall, feet spread on the subfloor, and accepted each strike with a twitch in his sculpted back. No chains, no clothes, no words. When she’d told him she had to mark him, he’d stripped wordlessly and gripped the nearest wall. The knot in her gut doubled.

Mr. E had taught Van the art of whip cracking, and they used her body as Van’s cutting target. Van eventually passed the skill to her. But it didn’t matter if she was on the end of the handle or the fall, she had never experienced the kind of trust evidenced in the relaxed muscles before her.

That he would find credibility in her despite the cruelty she’d inflicted upon him twisted her insides.

She snapped back the single tail, popped it forward, and let the fall lash his upper thigh. Crack.

His legs trembled and his back rippled, but he refused to move, bound by trust alone.

Her heart squeezed, but she kept the whip moving over her shoulder, elbow in. A hairpin wave uncurled like an extension of her arm. Crack.

Another welt joined the others striping his back, ass, and thighs. His head dipped between his braced arms, the hair at his nape damp with sweat.

She swung her arm back. Held it.

Every strike left a new scar inside her. No more. She dropped the whip, her blood beating cold. “I’m done.”

Turning, he closed the distance, cupped her jaw, and rested a hand on her hip. “I’m kind of starting to like those feverish little love taps.”

A glimpse of his erection confirmed it. “Kind of starting? You’ve been getting stiffies under my whip since day one.” If he weren’t locked in her room, facing an unknown future, maybe she wouldn’t feel so sick about her part in it. Maybe she would wrap her legs around his waist and f*ck him like she’d wanted to the moment she first saw him.

But he deserved a good, clean girl. She drew in a slow breath and raised her eyes.

His smile creased his clean-shaven complexion, lighting up the pale glow of his green eyes and chasing away some of her overflowing guilt. It also wobbled her footing as his Mistress.

She glared at him, her insides melting under the warmth of his affection. “Remove your hand from my face, boy.”

“What’s your last name?” His hand dropped, but only as far as the bust of her corset, fingertips caressing the pillow of her breasts above the binding. He bit his lip, watching her with a lopsided grin.

Fuck her, he was so damned charming. She emptied her expression. “I’ll break your fingers.”

He arched a challenging eyebrow.

She arched one in return.

He ducked his head and took her mouth, lips brushing, tongue teasing, flicking, kindling a slow-burning fire. His hands traveled around her ribs and clutched her back, tugging her close. He ate at her mouth, and she met him lick for lick.